


Dreams of a Life Past

by darkhavens



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, implied het (past)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 12:09:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5927833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkhavens/pseuds/darkhavens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will still has trouble sleeping through the night, waking from dreams/nightmares of being back in his old life. Hannibal helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams of a Life Past

Will jerks into gasping wakefulness. A soundless scream is furled in his throat, while his heart is trying its best to beat its way loose from his chest. Muscles that should be warm and loose from sleep suddenly thrum with the need to move, to _go run hide chase catch_ , a dreamed adrenaline response carried over into waking.

He calms, little by little, as tiny pieces of reality slot back into place. He's on the wrong side of a too-soft, too-wide bed [no longer closest to the door, to protect, to defend], in a room that isn't -wasn't- his. On the white-painted filigree ironwork [not battered oak] bedside table, the alarm clock beams out 3:17am in cool blue light [not underwater green].

Under the light cotton sheet [not a tangled pile of mismatched blankets], there's a heavy, muscular arm [not slender or delicate, not feminine] around his waist. A hand, [no gold band on that second finger... yet] attached to its forearm by a wrist ribboned with scars, fondly strokes the permanent smile it etched into his belly, once upon a time, in another life.

The lips that gently buss his overly abused shoulder, the teeth that sweetly nip the fragile skin of his nape - they are uniquely of the here and now. They don't belong in the dream [nightmare] he's just escaped, or the ones that came before, or the ones he's entirely sure will come after.

They ground him, pull the last lost pieces of him back... to him, to them, to Hannibal, to _home_. The relief makes him tremble, and the arm around him tightens. A soft, questioning hum sounds from the man-monster-beloved behind him, but Will shakes his head, unable and unwilling to destroy another night's ease, to taint a day not yet begun with more memories of a life he'd been grateful, in the end, to leave behind.

He'll tell Hannibal later, after breakfast maybe, or when they take the dogs for their run. He'll tell Hannibal, so Hannibal can exorcise another of his demons, strip it bare and methodically rend it down into easily consumable portions, to be swallowed down and digested, processed and finally forgotten.

And if that digestive process requires something extra, well, there's a restaurant in town with an overbearing bully of a chef that reminds WIll a little too much of Jack Crawford for him to feel comfortable eating there, despite the first class gumbo he knows they serve.

He really misses good gumbo.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt [Author’s choice, author’s choice, Tell Me Your Dreams](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/692020.html?thread=91095860#t91095860) at lj's comment_fic community.


End file.
